Fed by the constant stream of bubbling ichor that oozed through the sewers and canals, the rats of the Undercity were massive. It was wise to avoid sitting too still for more than a few minutes, for it was well known that the vermin would soon approach and begin to feed if undisturbed. Oftentimes, a Forsaken who could afford no better than a damp corner deep in the outer ring would awaken from a rare nap to find that yet more of his rotting frame had been nibbled away...if he even woke at all. This time of year, the rats had more reason to venture forth from the sewers into the streets, falling on the dropped and discarded bits of dumplings from the Lunar Festival with a voracity that rivaled that of a Forsaken starved for human flesh.
So focused was one of these rodents on its prize that it failed to notice that, in its hunting for bits of rotting food, it too was being hunted. The rat paused in its scurrying, head up as if to detect a strange smell - something amiss in this part of the world where these vermin reigned - and the hunter pounced, sinking his teeth deep in the back of the rat's neck and, with a quick shake of his head, breaking its neck.
Unnoticed by the passers-by, the Siamese half dragged, half carried his prey through the Inner Ring, past the auctioneers and through the tunnels that snaked through the Magic Quarter, to a small alcove partially blocked off by an old, decrepit wagon, and dropped it at the feet of his Forsaken companion. Sitting proudly back on his haunches, he swished his tail, expecting the usual words of praise she always had for him when he brought back his own food, but she paid him no heed. A line was knit between her brows and her seemingly blank stare had deepened, the hollows of her eyes blacker, her jaw clenched and tremors occasionally sheeting their way through her body. Clutched in the warlock's gloved hand was her hearthstone.
It had been hours since Acherontia had last heard the voice that had first whispered through her hearthstone and still resonated in her brain. Husky and commanding, his was a voice she had never expected to hear...his, or any of his compatriots. She had stormed out of the Gallow's End Tavern after crumpling her letter of application to The Grim and flinging it in the priest's face. After reaching the Undercity, Acherontia had hunched herself against the wall of one of the more crowded streets and resumed her quiet watching of the Forsaken that passed her by. This one...or that one...or that one...but no. All her unobtrusive watching, the scanning of the auras of all whom she met whenever she came to a crowded place rich with her own kind, had availed her nothing. Yet still, she watched them...
"Stop it, Abramelin," Acherontia hissed as she pushed the cat away from the pack at which he had been nosing. Abramelin meowed his discontent, yet felt that this was not the time to try the patience of the young warlock any further. He slunk away, keeping out from under the feet of the Horde who walked the streets of the Undercity this night. Acherontia tucked herself further back into her corner, letting the people pass her by, watching their colors flash within her mind and discarding every single one. She had only begun to see each being as a color after her eyes were taken from her, but tonight, as always, Acherontia was looking for one she had never before seen. Her heart clenched painfully within her at the thought, but rather than pushing the ache aside as she sometimes did, she let it bleed through her, feeding her awareness and hopefully making it easier to recognize it when it came...if it ever did.
"Hm..."
Acherontia was so focused on the Forsaken as they passed her that she thought she imagined the voice coming from within the backpack at her side. She had been staring at it for a long minute, perplexed, when it came again, and this time it was unmistakable.
"Do you have a moment, Sister Warlock?"
Her jaw dropped. Sneaking a glance at those who surrounded her, she resisted the urge to snatch up her backpack and dump its contents on the floor. Instead, she opened it and felt around inside - linen cloth, her thread, a few parchments of patterns...her hand brushed by something hard and - to her surprise - warm. She closed her hand around the hearthstone and withdrew it from the bag. Tracing her fingers over the strange rune on its surface, she waited for a long minute. It wasn't the priest's voice. But could it be...it couldn't...not his, not here. The cadence was wrong, it was too hard, too commanding, not at all like she remembered...Acherontia gritted her teeth and smiled sardonically. Look what happened to me, she thought. Anyone could be changed to this.
She had to know.
Steeling her resolve, she took a deep breath and made her voice as hard as she could muster. "Who is this?" It was a statement, not a question. She was not made to wait long for the response.
"Arch Dread Magus Lupen Vakov of the Grim."
Not him after all.
Her initial disappointment was soon overcome by shock as her mind caught up with her heart. She felt her blood reverse itself in her veins as the world disappeared from around her. The Grim...it couldn't be. How had they...she hadn't sent her letter, she had left it on the floor after - ...her jaw clenched in fury. She would deal with that damned priest later. Right now, she wanted to fling her hearthstone far away from her. What had he told them? Anger began to give way to fear. What did they want? She tried to force some semblance of calm into her voice, tried to hide the tremble. "How -" No. She knew how. Deep breath. Stay calm. "How is it that you have reviewed my application so soon? Forgive me, I did not expect to hear from you. So soon," she added again, almost as an afterthought. Acherontia dropped her head back against the wall and squeezed her eyes shut. She should just tell him that there had been a mistake. She was already in deeper than she had ever wanted to be.
"If you are unprepared, perhaps we could conduct the interview at a later time..."
Her eyes snapped open and she stared with empty sockets. Interview? Now??? She scanned the crowd frantically, looking for - what? She didn't know this Lupen Vakov...for all she knew he could be watching her right now. The thought drove her to her feet, caused her to pick up her backpack - casually, she hoped - and start walking, still clutching her hearthstone. Trying to avoid colliding with other passers-by, she whispered into the stone again. "Ah, no, sir. I mean, now is a good time." Where could she go? Down, away from the crowded streets. "A Grim must always be prepared, is that not so?" Acherontia crossed the bridge out of the Trade Quarter and hurried through the Inner Ring, glancing back over her shoulder as she did so. Abramelin had begun trotting after her, never having gone far from her side as usual.
This time, the voice betrayed a hint of amusement. "Perhaps." Acherontia was headed into the Magic Quarter and spied an old, rotting cart that had been stuffed in a corner. She wedged herself between it and the wall, and found a small nook just big enough for her tiny frame. The warlock slid down the wall and huddled herself in the corner, trying to slow her breathing. She needed to think. Unfortunately, Lupen was speaking again.
Acherontia answered his questions as best as she could, trying desperately not to betray herself as she thought of what Melchisedech would have her say. What would a Grim say, what would a true Forsaken bent on the eradication of the Alliance say? She knew within her heart that what Acherontia would say would never be good enough for anyone. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Lupen ceased his questioning. Acherontia waited for long minutes for his decision...silent minutes that stretched into silent hours...as the time passed, she sat hunched in her corner and succumbed to her terror and her relief at alternate points. Perhaps it was best that he - and the Grim - were finished with her. That would mean that they hadn't coaxed the truth about her from Melchisedech and that they weren't coming to make an object lesson of her to anyone who would even consider applying to the Grim under a veneer of false fervor. She shuddered...surely she was too inconsequential to bother with. Surely...
Acherontia hadn't noticed Abramelin dragging in his evening meal into the little nook, so absorbed in her dread was she. For a time, the only sounds were the bubbling of the oozing ichor that coursed through the veins of the Undercity, the soft gnawing of the cat devouring his prey, until -
"Do you have a moment, Sister Warlock?"
It was the same greeting from the night before, and the bodiless voice was once again speaking to her through her hearthstone. Startled, she almost dropped it, but recovered more quickly than she had expected. "Of course, sir." And before she knew it, the formal words of induction were being spoken.
Her head was reeling. Welcomes were spilling forth from her hearthstone, voices and colors colliding in her head as she tried to grasp what she had just done. What she had just, in essence, tricked an Officer of the Grim into doing. What Melchisedech had engineered in sending her letter - for how else would she have come to their attention? What she should have prevented, in explaining that there had been a mistake, that she was no longer interested, that the priest had sent her letter and not she.
Tonight, a human had been admitted to the ranks of the Grim.